


Ramblin' Has Kept Us Apart

by ialpiriel



Series: The Doofus Noodle Gets Up To Shit [10]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Dancing, F/F, Long-Distance Relationship, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:50:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel/pseuds/ialpiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courier Six walks a long ways back to the Sierra Madre, with an awfully old sort of present, for one special gal (f!courier brings Christine a stack of records, and they proceed to waltz around the executive suites).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ramblin' Has Kept Us Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Originall posted on the [Fallout Kinkmeme](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5646.html?thread=11790606#t11790606).

She’d tried out some of the records, back at the Lucky 38, but none of ‘em had really caught her attention. Ain’t the sort of stuff she likes, really--all of it’s too soppy and gooey and full of declarations of love. Good for dancin’, maybe, but ain’t so good for listening. She shoved ‘em back in the corner until she decided it was time to make another trip back out to the Sierra Madre.

She did what she could to erase the route marked on her Pip-Boy, gives Christine that much respect, but she’s been walkin’ a long time, knows a path when she sees it, no matter how desert-y it is. Can keep a course by the shape of the horizon anymore, no path needed.

The records she keeps close at hand--stuffed in the back of her backpack, close to her spine, stored so they won’t break if she’s gotta run or drop her bag. Shoves the rest of it full of fresh food, mostly--sausages and prickly pear pads and a sack full of pinto beans and dozens of banana yucca fruits. All Christine's been eating for the last couple months ‘s gotta be shitty pre-War canned stuff, ‘less she’s turned into a ghost person and can eat the cloud residue off the walls. That ain’t likely though. 

It’s an eight-day long-walk out to the Sierra Madre casino, nestled in the mountains. Ground gets cloudy before she sees the casino, too hidden by the foothills and everything else. Dog’s footsteps away from the casino left a path worn down here. Speckles of red, and _shit_ she can feel her lungs closing up just thinkin’ ‘bout the Cloud again. Fumbles for one of the inhalers in the side pocket of her backpack, clutches it even though she don’t need it yet, won’t need it for days.

The roads start appearing day five, cracked to hell and useless. Sign does too, used to proclaim the way to the Sierra Madre, now‘s painted over in Cloud-red paint that smells the same as suites in the casino had. Cloudy footprints, too small to be Dog’s, tramped into the dirt around the signboard. Christine’s doing, then, ‘less Dean Domino acquired a sudden altruistic streak. Ain’t likely, out of the smarmy bastard. He’s lucky she let him walk out of there. Woulda done the wasteland a favor, doin’ him in for good.

She hopes Christine is still there, or at around when she arrives. Wouldn't object if she left--just so long as she gets to see her again before she does.

Also don’t need to be chasing her down in this fuckin’ desert. Too much ground for two women to find each other again. 

***

She runs the streets of the Villa again, just to make sure Christine’s safe. Not like Christine needs keeping safe, she’s got her shit together, but--ghost people come in packs, y’know, and even if they ain’t _smart_ there’s _a lot of ‘em_. Just as important of a factor.

She only meets one while she runs the Villa, takes it down with an easy sledgehammer to the--skull? mask? It’s no trouble, though, and she turns back to the casino.

Walk up to the casino is long, and her lungs burn by the time she reaches the door, so she stops, sits, takes a hit off the inhaler and lets it settle in her lungs until she feels them unbind a bit. _Shit_ how did she spend two weeks out here? This shitty garbage village full of its shitty garbage construction and shitty garbage fucking _Cloud_ \--

The casino lobby is empty, though she still jumps when she hears the air vents rattle to life. Sounds like a Ghost breathing down the back of her neck. Ain’t a good noise, other than it means Christine’s getting the place running slowly. Good for her. She deserves an air conditioner and a refrigerator. Might even have hot water, if the basement ain’t full of Cloud yet, or if she rigged something up so the Cloud ain’t a problem anymore.

Six stomps her way over to the executive suites elevator, ‘cause ain’t no reason to be quiet here. Ain’t ghost people, and shit, if she lived in this place, alone, for months, she’d want whatever warning she could get before someone showed their face. Executive suites are just above, anyway, so ain’t like Christine can’t hear her. Vera’s still playing over the speakers here. She supposes it ain’t a major thing on the list, if you don’t spend most of your time in the lobby. Ain't like it’s a bad song, really, just weird to hear Christine's voice comin’ out of a speaker, but it ain’t her voice. Same voice, but Vera sure don't sound like Christine. Sure as hell don’t sound like the Christine off the tapes from the Big Empty.

Elevator dings open, and the carpet’s been ripped up. Trapdoor in the bottom, looks like it's been pried up at least once so someone could get beneath the floor. One at the top, too, though it’s open yet. Panel’s sitting against the wall underneath the buttons.

There’s a big “6” painted on the back wall of the elevator, with an arrow pointing up. Same Cloud-red as the billboard had been on the way up.

Six grins and hits the button for the suites.

***

Dinner is sausage and pinto beans, fried in a cooking pan on top of a pair of hot plates. The two of them sit on the floor of the laundry room, Christine with her knees bent and shins crossed in front of her, Six folded up, knees to her chest and tilted outward, arms weaving in and out of her legs so she can reach what she needs without unfolding.

They talk about inconsequential things, mostly--Six passes the holotapes from the Empty back to Christine, who takes them and tosses them on the bed in the master bedroom; Christine offers what she calls ‘vintage sugar bombs’ to Six, who laughs and shoves a handful into her mouth so she spews crumbs when she tries to talk. Christine offers Six a schematic of an anti-Cloud suit she’s been working on, Six outlines the state of the Mojave and its politics.

After dinner is finished--Christine offers Six some sort of sweet bread made out of crumbled snack cakes, cooked-down Cloud residue, and whiskey--they take their conversations back to the master bedroom. Six drops her backpack--and her coat, and boots, and then most of the rest of her clothes--onto one of the chairs around the table; Christine makes the extra effort to put her pants and shirt away in a dresser, her body armor next to the door with her boots.

Christine moves the holotapes again, tosses them into a bedside table that Six can see is already crammed full of the things. Two of them flop onto the bed, bellies full, exhausted.

They're both quiet for a long time.

“Brought you somethin’,” Six finally murmurs.

“Mmmm?” Christine prompts.

“Coupla records. Y’know. Like the big black circle ones. Found ‘em somewhere used t’ be a museum. Old even by the time the War happened.”

“I’m fairly certain I’ve seen a phonograph around here somewhere. Could be out in the villa, though.”

“Ain’t a problem,” Six replies amiably. “Carried heavier, further, for less reward’n listenin’ to ‘em with a pretty girl.” Six grins slowly, and Christine whacks her shoulder, just beneath the patch of ghoulifying skin. Six moans dramatically and clutches at her arm, rolling “in throes of pain.” They're both laughing, soon, deep belly laughs that have them clutching at each other and mimicking the other’s bad mimicry even worse.

They fall asleep wound together--Six’s arm over Christine's chest, diaphragm to collarbone, Christine with one leg hooked over Six’s, faces turned toward each other. 

***

Dawn brings a disappointing red haze and the need for an inhaler. The executive suites ain’t got the phonograph, so they scour the rest of the casino--first the actual casino floor, then the restaurant, and then the Tampico, which seems like the best bet--until they determine there’s not one anywhere.

“Aw, c’mon, you're gonna make me walk all over the villa to find you a record player?” Six complains as she finally bothers to lace her boots up.

“Weren’t you the one who brought me the records in the first place? And didn't you say that was ‘no problem’ last night?”

“Yeah, so?” Six argues, and leans down to kiss Christine. Christine kisses her back before swatting her on the butt, which gets a glare from Six.

“You sure know how to woo a girl,” Christine laughs. “Bring me presents I can’t use after being away for months, then complain when I come with you to help make the present work.”

“One a my good qualities,” Six replies, bowing. “Real good at wooin’ girls.”

Christine rolls her eyes.

The finally find one in Salida del Sol, shoved into a closet in one of the crumbling houses. Six is the one who carries it, while Christine ranges ahead, pistol drawn and ready if they encounter any ghost people.

The streets are quiet, though, and they make it to the casino doors with only one stop for Six to use her inhaler and breathe for a bit. They hole up in one of the gift shops; Christine slices one of the cold-edible sausages Six brought along, offers Six half and eats half herself.

Six is still breathing alright by the time they make the elevator to the suites, and after Six sets the phonograph down--carefully, at least, but it ain’t easy tryin’ to set shit down when you’re so fuckin’ tall compared to everyone else--Christine manhandles her into a corner of the elevator and drags her down into a kiss. Six obliges, hands all over Christine's shoulders and back and breasts and stomach and scalp and cheeks while Christine hold her in place. Christine keeps her hands in the lapels of Six’s heavy canvas coat, stands on tiptoe so Six don’t have to lean down so much.

Elevator ride ain’t long enough for Six to give up her knees and just kneel on the floor, make their heights closer to even. Door to the suites grinds open, and Christine keeps Six in place for a moment. Lets one hand off Six’s lapels, though, lets it drift against Six’s chest just above the collar of her grimy tank top.

Christine lets Six straighten up, and Six straightens her spine for a moment, before squatting to get her arms around the phonograph again. Six staggers her way through the twisting hallways, toward the master bedroom. When she reaches it, she sets the phonograph on the table, stands and surveys her handiwork for a moment before Christine picks up the power cord.

“None of the outlets work here yet. Rats got into the wiring a long time ago, and I haven’t needed to fix it for anything yet.” Christine shrugs and coils the cord up, something to do with her hands while Six scowls at the phonograph.

“Well, shit,” Six grumbles. “Why ain’t you got your own damn power source, huh? You that much of an antique, or they just think you c’n set a phonograph near an outlet all the time? Hm? You gonna answer?” she asks at the phonograph. It, predictably, doesn’t answer. “That’s what I thought,” she sighs. She turns to Christine. “You c’n look through the records, if you want. I mean, I know you ain’t gonna be able to read them, but. You c’n choose which one we listen to, once I get this rigged up.” Six opens her backpack, hauls out the stack of records and hands them to Christine, who graciously takes ‘em before plopping into one of the chairs and setting her feet up on another. Out of the backpack also comes a screwdriver and a microfusion cell.

“You got any copper wire around?” she asks Christine--who’s looking over the album art, squinting at the words and studying the faces--and Christine points to the bookshelf by the door. Six grabs the coil of wire and adds it to her small pile.

The back of the phonograph comes open easy, and Six squints at it. After a moment, she fumbles for the knife at her hip, and saws through the power cord, right at its base. Christine watches her, raises her eyebrows.

“Don't need all that cord. ‘S a pain in the ass to deal with,” Six says without looking up. “Just need the contacts.” She sets the microfusion cell on its side, stops it from rolling with two chunks of power cord, then measures a length of copper wire. It doesn't look very exact, since she measures some and then bends the wire back and forth until it breaks. Christine considers going to get a pair of pliers, one with a cutting edge, but Six is already halfway through bending a second piece off the coil by the time she’s got the whole thought made. She goes back to flipping through the records.

Six pries off another panel and drops it on the table, yanks out more cord, finally goes from her chair to her knees so she can get a better angle on it with her knife. Christine wonders if Six could use her pair of needlenose pliers, shoved into a toolbox on the bottom of the shelves.

“Which record is your favorite?” Christine asks, making conversation since Six has started up with the incomprehensible muttering.

“The one with the lady on the front. Red label on the record itself. ‘S one of the small ones. 78 RPM I think it was?” Six looks at the ceiling while she considers the identifying information, then goes back to her jury-rigging. “Pretty sure. But don’t pick one just ‘cause it’s my favorite.”

“I don’t have much else to go on right now,” Christine points out. “Since I can’t read them.”

“Fair ‘nough,” Six laughs. “I think I just about got this, fuckers put the contacts way inside so I gotta practically rip the damn thing to pieces to get to ‘em, but…” She trails off as she pats the table looking for her lengths of wire. “You got any wonderglue? Works pretty well for insulating, if you ain’t got rubber around to do it with.”

“I'll go get it.”

“Thanks.”

Six pushes the microfusion cell a little further away, to avoid accidental contact, and wraps the end of the first piece of wire around its contact. She’s wrapping the second one when Christine drops the wonderglue between her elbows.

“Thanks,” Six says again. She finishes wrapping the wire, then uncaps the wonderglue. She smears some on her fingers, then sets to work coating the wires with it. She grumbles at her sticking fingers, but perseveres.

“You could use the bottle. The tip is small enough,” Christine points out.

“Yeah, but I already got glue all over my fingers,” Six replies. “An’ I already got one wire covered, so it ain’t like it’ll get me anything.”

“I’d rather not be stuck to you for days,” Christine says, and Six cackles.

“Awww, c’mon, I ain’t that bad. An’ it comes off in a couple days anyway, and ain’t like I’m hikin’ back to the Mojave after less’n a week here. Took me eight days to get out here, so you’re stuck with me for at least another five days after this’n.” Six doesn’t sit up, but she does tilt her head back in something that’s an attempt at endearing. She grins, wide enough to show of her missing teeth. “Ain’t no reason t’ not wanna be stuck to me.”

“There are _plenty_ ,” Christine shoots back, trying to not roll her eyes.

“Ouch,” Six snorts, returning to her insulation of wires. “That really cuts deep, y’know? Now I ain’t sure if I wanna spend the rest of the week here. Not if you’re gonna be like that.” “There are _plenty_ ,” Christine repeats. “ _Including_ the fact it’s hard to move if you’re glued together.”

“That is-” Six grunts as she hauls herself to her feet, insulating done except for drying time, “-a good point. A very good point.” She picks at some of the glue drying on her fingers, flinches when it won’t budge. “So whattaya say we fire up the phonograph and listen to some records?”

“The glue doesn’t need to dry?” Christine settles her feet on the floor, shuffles the records out of her lap and back onto the table--‘cept for the one Six highlighted earlier--looks up at Six.

“Nah. Ain’t gonna arc that far, and ain’t nothin’ else for it to ground itself on.” She slaps her palms together, like she’s dusting them off, and scowls as her hands try to stick. “Insulation’s just so you don’t touch the wires and ground ‘em through you. That ain’t fun. And long’s we’re careful and don’t run into ‘em, ain’t gonna be a problem.”

“Run into them…?” Christine trails off.

“Yeah, I was--” Six looks away, folds her hands behind her, ducks her head. “Thinkin’ maybe we could dance. Only if you wanna. We don’t have to.”

“I--don’t know how.”

“That’s easy!” Six lights up, her head jerking upright, her spine straightening. Her hands are behind her, but it looks less like a nervous gesture now, and more like she’s confident in what she’s saying. “I c’n teach you. Waltz’s got a different rhythm than a walkin’ song, but ‘s all counts anyway. One-two for a walk, one-two-three for a waltz. Ain’t hard to teach.” Six shrugs, folds in on herself again.

“Is the record you suggested a waltz?” Christine tilts it back an’ forth ‘tween her fingers, studying the cover instead of Six’s face.

“Yeah.” Six shuffles a bit in place. “‘S a good song.”

“Well then, let’s put it on.” Six nudges the microfusion cell in between the two ends of the wires from the contacts, settles the wires in place, grins again as Christine walks around the table to place the record on the spindle and the needle on the record. Six curls one arm around Christine's shoulders--not the prelude to a waltz, as far as Christine can guess; just one of those things Six does sometimes, some contact with another person that she don't get enough of, can’t possibly, not with the running around and the deathclaws and the being shot in the head and Caesar and Oliver and House and Yes Man breathing down the back of her neck--Six curls one arm around Christine's shoulders and leans across her to poke at buttons until, with a crackle of static, the phonograph comes to life. Six hits another button, and a small red light flickers next to some letters Christine can’t read. “Should repeat now. Won’t hafta fix it every time the song finishes.”

Six straightens back up, lets her left arm--the one curled ‘round Christine's shoulders--drift down until her fingers are at Christine's wrist, turns Christine’s hand, laces their fingers. It’s her worse arm--the rot’s spreading from her elbow joint, out; it goes from the back of her wrist and up over the meat of her shoulder, obliterating the claw marks that Six had insisted were from a deathclaw, and not the much-more-likely gecko Christine suspected. Six brings her better arm around, rests her hand just under and behind Christine’s shoulder, as the woman on the record begins to sing. Christine rests her arm on Six’s bicep--can’t reach Six’s shoulder, and there’s too much crossing of arms if she goes for Six’s waist--curls her fingers tight against the intact skin past Six’s elbow.

“ _Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes_ ,” the woman on the record croons, and Six starts to sway--one, two, three, one, two, three, Christine can at least pick up that rhythm. “Three steps to half a box,” Six says, voice so low in her chest it comes out soft like velvet. “Back,” she says, taking a step forward with her right foot so Christine has to take a step back with her left, narrowly avoiding a chair that Six gives a hearty kick with her heel, to scoot it outta the way. “Side’n’turn,” she says, steps her left foot past Christine's right side so Christine has to do an eighth-turn to keep up with her. “An’ then you close,” Six finishes, tucking her feet together so the eighth-turn becomes a quarter-turn, heels-to-heels and knees-to-knees with herself so she totters for a moment before she widens her stance a bit. She beams down at Christine. “An’ that’s the top half of your box. Now you do the same steps.” Christine nods and licks her lips, her hands tightening on Six, as she struggles to not look down at her feet.

“Back,” and Six’s left foot goes back while Christine's left foot goes forward, so they end up a fumbling, laughing tangle of arms and bodies. When they’re righted and rearranged--toe-to-toe, now, so little space between them they can smell the sweat and grime on each other, bitter Cloud and a whiff of nauseating rot, tinny beans and fresh fruit--the song is winding down. “Here, before the song comes back ‘n’ throws us off again,” Six says. “Back,” and this time Christine steps with her right foot as Six steps with her left, “Side’n’turn,” another eighth-turn puts Six’s back to the bedroom doors, and “Close,” finishes their quarter turn, so Six’s back is to the window. “There y’ go,” Six murmurs, lets her hand slide further around Christine’s back, until they’re chest to chest--or at least as close to “chest-to-chest” as they’re going to get, with Six’s hips even with Christine's belly--as they step, back-side’n’turn-close, as the music picks up again.

Six leads as they go in awkward, boxy, uneven circles, between the table and the bedroom doors. They settle into the rhythm soon enough, and Six starts humming along. Christine picks up the words soon, too, and half-sings, half-hums, which makes Six start up the actual words.

“Why this one?” Christine asks, as the song starts up a fourth time.

“Dunno,” Six admits. “I like it, I guess.”

“You aren’t fishing for compliments?” Christine asks, wrinkling her nose and smiling and looking Six in the eye.

“Not unless you wanna give the compliments,” Six replies, winking. “Ain’t like I’m gonna tell you y’ can’t tell me my eyes are beautiful.”

“I’m not sure you’ve earned a compliment. ‘I’ll never love blue eyes again,’ indeed.”

“Aw, c’mon, ain’t like I’m the one who wrote the song, right? Ain’t my fault she ain’t got her shit together.”

“You made the music choice, though,” Christine replies.

“Nah, you picked that one. And ain’t there a line in there about ‘I’ll never love brown eyes no more?’ Ain’t like you got the high ground here.”

“‘I’ll never see brown eyes again,’ so I’m still ahead, if you’re keeping score.”

“Damn.” Six huffs.

They’re both quiet for a moment, lets the woman croon out the end of the song. “This ‘s nice,” Six murmurs, as the needle resets. “Miss doin’ stuff like this. Been a long time. Miss doin’ romance stuff. Woulda brought you flowers, but I don’t think they’d live long enough, an’ I ain’t ever found good chocolates either, not ones’ll last in the heat.” Six ducks her head, looks away. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“I didn’t expect any of this,” Christine replies, stops moving so Six pulls away for a moment, before she stops too, takes a half step back. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”

“Yeah well,” Six shuffles again, hunches her shoulders up, straightens her spine, lets her hand on Christine’s back drift to Christine’s wrist. “I wanted to. An’ bein’ alone up here’ll take you out of your head. Spent enough time without other people around to know it. Records’ll help ‘cause at least they’re voices that ain’t yours. Still ain't a conversation or someone to touch you, but it’ll help.”

“I appreciate it,” Christine murmurs. She stands on tiptoe, shakes off Six’s hands so she can tug at the straps of her tank top, pull her back down into a kiss. Six pulls away after a moment, but only long enough to maneuver Christine--who goes willingly--into a chair, and drop to her knees between Christine’s legs. Heights are closer to even this way--Six’s eyes level with Christine's shoulders, instead of the top of Christine’s head just breaking at Six’s collarbones. “I really do,” Christine says, pulling Six back into a kiss, as Six spreads her fingers across the tops of Christine's thighs as she leans in.

**Author's Note:**

> The song is "[Beautiful Brown Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PUAnbCweV4)" by Rosemary Clooney.


End file.
